And then, just as in a play, Trilby's "Milk below!" was sounded at the door, and Trilby came into the little antechamber, and seeing strangers, was about to turn back. She was dressed as a grisette, in her Sunday gown and pretty white cap (for it was New-year's Day), and looking her very best.
Taffy called out, "Come in, Trilby!"
And Trilby came into the studio.
As soon as she saw Mrs. Bagot's face she stopped short—erect, her shoulders a little high, her mouth a little open, her eyes wide with fright—and pale to the lips—a pathetic, yet commanding, magnificent, and most distinguished apparition, in spite of her humble attire.
The little lady got up and walked straight to her, and looked up into her face, that seemed to tower so. Trilby breathed hard.
At length Mrs. Bagot said, in her high accents, "You are Miss Trilby O'Ferrall?"
"Oh yes—yes—I am Trilby O'Ferrall, and you are Mrs. Bagot; I can see that!"
A new tone had come into her large, deep, soft voice, so tragic, so touching, so strangely in accord with the whole aspect just then—so strangely in accord with the whole situation—that Taffy felt his cheeks and lips turn cold, and his big spine thrill and tickle all down his back.
"Oh yes; you are very, very beautiful—there's no doubt about that! You wish to marry my son?"
"I've refused to marry him nineteen times for his own sake; he will tell you so himself. I am not the right person for him to marry. I know that. On Christmas night he asked me for the twentieth time; he swore he would leave Paris next day forever if I refused him. I hadn't the courage. I was weak, you see! It was a dreadful mistake."